


to the place i belong

by gdgdbaby



Series: past, present, future [2]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Double Penetration, Multi, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Road Trips, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-27 11:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14424234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: Tommy doesn't regret moving to San Francisco—it was, at the time, what Fenway needed—but for the past ten miles of Highway 1, Lovett's been telling some involved story about the mailman on their street, Jon laughing and interjecting at all the appropriate moments, and it occurs to Tommy that there are whole swaths of their lives that he's missed because he was eight hours north, coming home to an apartment that he'd never planned to stay in for so long.





	to the place i belong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/gifts).



> a very indulgent (and slightly timeline-adjacent) story about touch-starved tommy roadtripping down the california coast with his best bros. title, of course, from john denver's seminal classic, "take me home, country roads."

There isn't, in the end, a lot of stuff for Tommy to pack up when the lease on his apartment in San Francisco runs out mid-April. He's been living out of Jon's guest bedroom for a substantial portion of the last eight months; it feels like half his shit is already there.

Still, it takes them a good hour and a half on Friday morning to load up his Audi, strap a suitcase to the roof of the car. Turns out Lovett is pretty handy with rope and rigging when he needs to be. One day, Tommy's finally going to be able to coax him onto a boat.

For now, though, they're here: Jon and Lovett loitering in the stairwell, scrolling through their phones and reading out the occasional tweet with incendiary commentary while Tommy finishes his last checks. He probably could've scrubbed the grout in the bathroom a little more, but it's too late for that now. Tommy hefts his backpack and slides his shoes on, adjusting the laces, and steps across the threshold.

"You guys really didn't have to fly out, you know," he says for what feels like the hundredth time. "I could've just driven down myself."

Jon and Lovett share a look. "Don't be stupid," Lovett says, rolling his eyes as he tucks his phone into his pocket. "There's no way I was going to let you snatch away my chance at finally making this road trip. I've been living in California since—what, 2011? Kind of dumb that it's taken this long." The corner of his mouth lifts. "Picking you up along the way is just a bonus. A side quest."

Tommy snorts, shaking his head, and pulls his keys out. "Your generosity is duly noted." He takes one more moment to look at the apartment, stripped bare of anything but the furniture it came with, the coffee table with the stain on one leg and empty bookshelves leaning against the far wall. He spent almost three years here, and it does feel weird that there's nothing of him left to see. That it's that easy to just pack his entire life up and move on.

"You good?" Jon says behind him, soft.

"Yeah," Tommy says. He closes the door.

They take the elevator down, and Tommy drops his keys off at the leasing office, walks out to the parking lot one last time. It's a quarter till twelve, the sun beating down, finally warm enough outside to not have to layer. Clear skies as far as the eye can see and miles of road ahead. Tommy ducks into the driver's seat and watches Jon fold himself into the passenger's side, Lovett taking the first shift squashed next to two big boxes in the back.

"Okay," Tommy says, gunning the engine. Jon's fingers are drumming against the dashboard, and Lovett's co-opted the Bluetooth connection, the first strains of the curated road trip playlist he's been talking about for weeks coming on over the speakers. "Let's go."

 

 

They grab tacos on their way out of the city, roll down the windows afterwards to air out the smell of cheese and salsa. The plan for the rest of the day is to drive two hours along the scenic route and stop by the Monterey Bay Aquarium before it closes, maybe use the last of the daylight to wander out to the lighthouse, and then head to a hotel they'd booked in Carmel.

"One nice cozy king-sized bed for all three of us," Jon says blandly, checking the reservation on his phone as they wind toward the coast.

Lovett laughs. "Dear diary," he intones, and when Tommy glances at him through the rearview mirror, his mouth is stretched wide into a shit-eating grin.

Tommy stares out at the road, flush rising in his face. It's not like he hadn't expected _something_ to happen on this trip. He's messed around with Jon (in Chicago), and with Lovett (in DC), and with Jon and Lovett (across several cities in the contiguous United States, most recently Los Angeles), and he has no illusions, in the years Jon and Lovett have been across-the-street neighbors, that they've been able to keep their hands to themselves. Every permutation possible has been checked off at this point, the grooves so well-worn that they haven't had to talk about it much, how easily the personal and the professional have blended together.

Maybe they _should_ talk about it more, act like the communications experts they're supposed to be, because here Tommy is, driving down to crash in Jon's guest bedroom while he apartment hunts for the foreseeable future, and he still can't stop wallowing in his own neuroticisms. It's just hard to fit a word in edgewise when Jon and Lovett have been yelling at him to move down and join them for the better part of a year, as if it's all a foregone conclusion. Despite everything, Tommy still feels a little bit like he's butting in. Like they'll remember all the little things about him that annoy them when he's finally around all the time: his penchant for waking up too early on the weekends, for sublimating his anxiety through Barry's Boot Camp workouts, for pulling out the guitar at house parties when there's a lull in the conversation to fill.

Tommy doesn't regret moving to San Francisco—it was, at the time, what Fenway needed—but for the past ten miles of Highway 1, Lovett's been telling some involved story about the mailman on their street, Jon laughing and interjecting at all the appropriate moments, and it occurs to Tommy that there are whole swaths of their lives that he's missed because he was eight hours north, coming home to an apartment that he'd never planned to stay in for so long.

"Tom," Jon says, and there's a hand nudging at his thigh to get his attention.

Tommy untangles himself from his thoughts, hands flexing around the steering wheel, and blinks. "Sorry, what?"

"Look," Jon says, pointing left and ahead, and as they round the last bend toward Monterey, the wide expanse of the ocean stretches out before them, the overhanging cliffs around the bay and the white caps of the waves in all their resplendent glory. If Tommy squints, he can see a few boats on the horizon, out at sea. He feels his shoulders relax.

"Wow," Lovett says, hushed, and then: "I'm putting this on Instagram."

Tommy meets Jon's eyes and laughs, shaking his head. "Send me the video, Lovett."

 

 

Tommy pulls into the parking lot of the aquarium three hours before closing, which is enough time for them to walk through a couple of the main exhibits and bask in the air conditioning. Lovett takes a bunch of pictures of jellyfish and sharks and various fish to send to Stephanie; Bennett's apparently on a huge marine wildlife kick.

"You've been quiet," Jon says, when they're staring through the glass at the Kelp Forest. He looks translucent in the blue light when Tommy turns toward him, the reflection of the water rippling across his skin. "Since San Francisco, I mean."

"I've been driving," he replies after a moment, shrugging.

Jon glances sideways at him, eyebrows raised. He shuffles a little closer, their hands brushing against each other, and Tommy has to grit his teeth to keep himself from shuddering. "You're allowed to feel sad. You know that, right?" Jon's fingers press around Tommy's wrist, soft and fleeting. "Like, I don't miss DC as a place, necessarily, but I do miss the people."

"That's not it," Tommy says, exhaling. It's easier, somehow, in the dim light of the exhibit to say, "Everybody I wanna be with is in Los Angeles, anyway."

"Tough hit on Dan," Jon says with a grin.

Tommy huffs. "I'm not sleeping with Dan," he points out, voice pitched low so none of the kids walking around can hear them.

"Oh, good," comes Lovett's voice, and he presses in on Tommy's other side, elbow nudging at his stomach. Lovett isn't usually demonstratively touchy, especially not in public; it feels better than it should to have him crowded close. "That's definitely something I've been worried about."

Jon rolls his eyes. "One of his wilder theories as to why you wouldn't move down," he explains, and Tommy laughs, can't help it, the tangled knot at the center of his chest loosening just a bit.

 

 

Dinner happens at a seafood joint five minutes away, the kind of place that requires bibs and crab crackers, and they make it to the Point Pinos Lighthouse just as the sun is setting. Jon asks someone to take a photo of the three of them, smiling with their arms tucked around each other, and tweets it on the car ride to the hotel.

"Looks like the listeners are very invested in your relocation," Lovett comments. He's somehow wedged in the backseat with his feet flat against the side of one box, slouched against the door. Tommy has no idea how that's comfortable, but he's long since given up questioning the mysteries of Lovett's skeletal structure.

"I'm flattered," Tommy says, dry. "It's not like we've been teasing it since Keepin' it 1600 or anything."

"The people know what they want," Jon says meaningfully, and then they're pulling into the parking lot of the hotel.

"I call first shower," Lovett chirps, hopping out of the back seat and scurrying into the lobby. Jon follows at a more sedate pace to check in, and Tommy lingers behind to unclip the suitcase from the roof of the car and tuck it in the back seat.

All jokes aside, the room they get does end up having two queen beds. Lovett's already humming in the shower when Tommy comes in with his backpack, toes his shoes off. The bed closest to the door is untouched, and Jon's scrolling through his iPad on the other, sleep clothing folded at his feet.

Tommy sends him a questioning look, and Jon says, "Lovett decided to be magnanimous about the bed-sharing situation." Tommy can't quite figure out how to convey that that's the last thing he wants (that he's been sleeping alone long enough, thanks) without sounding way too needy, so he just nods and drops his stuff next to the bedside table between them. The mattress squeaks as he sinks down and peels his socks off.

When it's his turn in the bathroom, Tommy takes a quick, utilitarian shower, rubbing the complementary lavender shampoo provided by the hotel into his hair, and brushes his teeth on autopilot. The mirror's all fogged up, and he wipes it clean to inspect his chin. He hadn't packed a razor in his overnight bag, but he doesn't really need one—probably won't until Monday, and even if he did, he knows for a fact that Jon always packs extras.

Steam billows out from the bathroom as Tommy pushes through the door, so it takes a minute for him to notice Lovett's climbed into Jon's lap, iPad discarded. It's impossible to miss once he's stepped further into the main room, waved the mist out of his eyes. Their mouths are pressed together, and Lovett's got his hands balled up loosely against Jon's neck.

Tommy inhales, measured and slow. He's watched them do this on countless Skype calls, but there's something about being in the same room that makes it feel different, more alive. Jon's thin fingers have slid past the waistband of Lovett's boxer-briefs, and he isn't exactly groping Lovett yet, but it could turn into that, soon. Tommy wonders if they're just going to keep making out, if lazy kissing is just part of their sleep routine now, or if it's a prelude to something more.

Either way, they look good like this; they've always looked good like this. It's hard, sometimes, for Tommy to look at them and see how he would improve things, what he brings to the table that they don't already have. If it ain't broke, right?

He sinks down onto his bed and keeps toweling his hair dry. Checks his phone, scrolling through notifications, but can't retain anything he's seeing on Twitter, and then—

"What are you doing?" Lovett says. It's not until Tommy glances over again and sees Lovett staring at him that he realizes he's the intended recipient of the question.

"What?" Tommy's face must look pretty stupid, because Lovett's gaze softens.

"Get over here," Lovett continues. He reaches out to beckon with one hand. "What, did you think we were going to just keep going without you?"

"Double bed's kind of a tight fit," Tommy points out, but he's already crossing the short distance, settling in next to Jon. There's a moment's uncertainty while he waits, his thigh pressed against Lovett's knee, and then Lovett's leaning over to kiss him, too, squirming into his lap, the brush of his mouth steady and warm. Tommy closes his eyes and exhales into it, ears ringing. He's kissed Lovett before; he doesn't know why it feels so intense this time, so revelatory, except that when Jon winds his fingers in between Tommy's, squeezing, Tommy's chest suddenly feels too tight, like Jon's reached into his ribcage and cupped both hands around his pounding heart.

Lovett must feel it when Tommy's mouth goes slack, because he pulls back, eyes wide, blinking in the low light. His hair is still damp from his shower, curls pressed flat against his head. Without thinking, Tommy reaches up with his free hand to palm Lovett's neck, thumb brushing against the soft skin behind his ear.

"Tommy?" Lovett says, sounding concerned. He tries to duck in again, but Tommy holds him in place, grip firm to keep his arm from shaking too much. "We don't—if you don't want to, you can say so."

"It's not that I don't want to," Tommy manages. "I just—can we just—stay here like this?" He swallows, letting his eyes slip shut, and turns so he can sink his head onto Jon's shoulder, breathe in the clean, sharp scent of his aftershave. "Sorry. I don't really know what's wrong with me." He's not in the mood, but he is; he wants the familiar weight of Lovett in his lap, but none of the normal attending benefits. He feels too shaky for anything but wrapping himself up in warmth.

"San Francisco turned you into a cuddlemonster, huh," Jon murmurs, hand squeezing around Tommy's again.

Tommy says, "I guess," gusty, and shifts closer. Jon lets him.

"I get it," Lovett says, with a rare gentleness that Tommy's only really heard come out around Pundit and young children. Tommy feels Lovett's arms curl around his waist, his head tucked beneath Tommy's chin. "It was like that for me, too, when I first moved out here. Barely knew anybody, went from government structure to weeks with no real deadlines, so I stayed home by myself a lot." A pause, and then, in one quick gust: "Didn't realize I was quite so touch-starved until the first time I tried to hook up with some guy I met at a Hollywood mixer and nearly burst into tears when he put his hand on the back of my neck. It wasn't great."

Tommy makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. "Lovett," Jon says, pained. "You never said anything."

"Yeah, well," Lovett says, shrugging. His voice sounds odd. Too careful. "You guys were still out there saving the world together. I didn't want to impose."

"Since when have you ever not wanted to impose?" Tommy says automatically, cracking an eye open, and Lovett lifts his head, looks so affronted for a moment that Tommy can't corral the laugh that spills out of his mouth.

"Here I am," Lovett mutters, "hugging you out of the _kindness_ of my heart, and what do I get? This bullshit." He doesn't actually pull away or let go, though, so he can't be too offended.

Tommy says, "I appreciate you," and closes his eyes again. "Both of you." Jon hums, turning so he can press his mouth to Tommy's hair, and for a long time, they just breathe together into the silence.

 

 

Jon takes over driving duties on Saturday morning. Tommy squashes himself into the back seat while Lovett luxuriates in shotgun, slouching in the front. "Get your feet off my dashboard," Tommy says, stern, kicking the back of his seat, and Lovett makes a big show of sighing before he folds his legs pretzel-style instead.

They pass the time to Pismo Beach playing Twenty Questions with various politicians and listening to Lovett monologue about the new Star Wars trailer for a solid half hour before he finally stops to take a breath and a sip of water. It's high noon when they pull into the beachside hotel they're staying at.

Tommy had made sure to pack swimming trunks and sunscreen for this. They change in the same room, and Lovett's grinning when Tommy strips off his shirt so Jon can apply sunscreen across his shoulders. "Disgusting," Lovett says cheerfully as Jon works him over, warm slick hands lingering at the small of Tommy's back, squeezing his hips. "My boys, so fit, one tan and one pale as a ghost. You should definitely make out on the beach for my personal viewing pleasure."

"Jesus, Lovett," Tommy says. It's hard enough trying not to turn into a pile of mush from the impromptu back massage Jon seems to be giving him.

"I forgot how red you get when you blush," Lovett says, pleased, legs swinging as he leans forward from where he's perched next to the TV. "Now do him."

When Tommy turns, Jon's rolling his eyes but laughing a little, as if to say, _yes, we've moved into the part of this trip where Lovett orders us around_. Tommy's mostly just surprised it took this long. Jon hands Tommy the bottle of sunscreen, turns around obligingly.

Jon's always slimmer than Tommy remembers, built willowy and lean to Lovett's broad stockiness. Tommy rubs the sunscreen across Jon's back with careful sweeps, and Jon's shoulders twitch when Tommy digs his fingers into the grooves of his spine. On a stray impulse, he ducks forward to press his mouth against the nape of Jon's neck, smiles when he feels Jon shiver.

"Save it for the beach, Tommy," Lovett says gruffly. His eyes are dark when Tommy meets them over Jon's shoulder. "We should at least try to get a little tanner before we come back and fuck like animals."

" _Lovett_ ," Jon says, but he's laughing again.

"I think tanning is predicated upon actually taking your shirt off," Tommy says, raising his eyebrows, and lets the sound of Lovett's indignant squawking hound him out to the sand.

It's an excellent afternoon to bask in the sun; Tommy feels more relaxed than he has in a while, lying on his stomach across a fluffy towel, the waves crashing a hundred feet away lulling him into a half-doze. At some point Lovett must convince Jon to take a dip, because the next time Tommy lifts his head, they're both drenched, Lovett's shirt sticking to his chest, beads of water dripping down Jon's torso. Lovett's also somehow acquired a box of popsicles; he sits down cross-legged beneath their big umbrella, nose already peeling, and hands one to Tommy.

"Eat up before they melt," he says, and grins when Tommy unwraps it and sucks at the tip. There really is no way to eat a popsicle without basically fellating it, which must be the whole point.

"Is this a spring break fantasy for you?" Jon asks, catching the one Lovett tosses at him. "Are you trying to recapture your glory years?"

"Maybe so, Favreau," Lovett says, lounging back on his elbows to survey them over the rims of his sunglasses. "Maybe so. If you guys played some beach volleyball later, that would totally complete the whole experience."

They don't play beach volleyball, but Tommy does pick up a frisbee that nearly hits him in the head and toss it around with some of the other beach-goers. Lovett eyes him appreciatively after he comes back, having worked up a good sweat, and then they sit there and bake some more until the sun's hanging low in the sky, bickering intermittently over whatever dumb thing someone's found on the Internet.

Around half past seven, when the clouds are streaked through with orange and magenta and the gulls have started flying home to roost, Lovett starts making noise about finding food. Jon nudges Tommy's elbow while they're packing their stuff up, and asks, low and sincere, "Feel better?"

"Yeah," Tommy says, and then, flowing out of him with the ease of years of conditioning, adds, "You didn't have to, you know. Do any of this. So I'm grateful."

"You keep saying that," Lovett says, sidling between them with the rolled up beach towels tucked underneath his arms. "Why do you keep saying that?"

Tommy hefts his backpack and brushes sand off his butt. "Why do I keep thanking you? My momma raised me right, Lovett—"

"No," Lovett says, cutting him off, peering at him as they walk back up toward the hotel. "Why do you keep acting like we're doing you this huge, ridiculous favor?"

For a moment, Tommy's at a loss for words. "Because you are?" he splutters at last. "Look, I don't know about you, Lovett, but I don't have that many friends who would give up an entire weekend just to help me haul all my crap 400 miles down the western seaboard. I don't think it's weird to want to show that I'm not taking you for granted."

"Hm," Lovett says, and sends Jon an unreadable look. "Is that what we are? Friends?"

"I—" Tommy says, blinking, thrown. "Well. No. I mean—yes, but—"

"Former National Security Spokesperson Tommy Vietor, everyone," Lovett says, rolling his eyes, and pushes into their hotel room.

Inside the door, Jon touches Tommy's shoulder, and Tommy lists into it, drops his bag on the floor. He feels boneless all of a sudden, hollow and sun-drunk. He turns to tuck his face against Jon's neck, and Jon's other hand comes up to cup his elbow. "I just keep thinking," Tommy mumbles, hating how plaintive his voice comes out. He hears Lovett shuffle closer, a small hand drifting up to rest against Tommy's lower back. "I know it's stupid, but—you guys have been fine in LA for three years. Do you really need me?"

"Tommy," Jon says, breath ruffling his hair.

Tommy says, "Sorry," exhaling wetly.

After another long minute, Lovett says, "You're such an idiot," but it's less barbed than his usual insults, laced through with a terrible fondness. "Why the hell do you think we've been so insistent about you moving?"

"You're loud about a lot of things," Tommy counters, and Jon snorts.

Lovett ignores him, reaches up to coax Tommy's face toward his. "We need you, okay? We need you down there. I need someone to go hiking with Jon so he doesn't bother me on Saturday when I'm just _trying_ to have a lazy weekend for a change, and Jon needs someone to rein me in and take away my caffeinated beverages when I'm being an unholy terror in the office, and you need as many people as you can get to sit on you and make you sleep at night."

"That's why this works," Jon says, earnest as ever, and—it's not that these aren't things Tommy's thought about himself. It's just different when they're coming out of someone else's mouth. It makes him feel a little less alone.

Lovett sniffs, drawing himself up to his full, haughty height. "Also, martyrdom only looks good on me, for the record."

Tommy laughs, standing up straight, too, and scrubs a hand across his face. "Oh, okay, I didn't know you had a monopoly," he says, smiling. "I'll try to remember that next time."

 

 

They rinse off, throw on some clean clothes, and get food from a cafe downtown, fish and chips and calamari and a couple of bread bowls full of clam chowder to split. "Not as good as Boston's, but it'll do," Jon says, prototypically loyal, and cackles when Lovett throws a curly fry at his face.

It's Saturday night in a beach town, which means all the bars and pubs along the main street are full to bursting, loud music pouring forth, alcohol flowing. They stop by a place close to the pier for drinks, but Lovett didn't bring his ear plugs, so they only stay as long as it takes to knock back a couple of gin and tonics and a pitcher of beer. Enough to get the blood pumping, at least—enough for Tommy to look at the slick purse of Jon's lips around the rim of his glass and the sunburnt column of Lovett's throat, consider the telltale buzz gathering beneath his skin, and think, _yes, I want that, right now._

It's almost fully dark by the time they get back to the hotel. "You said something about fucking like animals, earlier," Tommy says at the door to their room, as good an opening as any, and grins when Lovett fumbles the keycard that Jon passes him.

"Is that on the table tonight?" Lovett asks, finally shoving it into the slot, the lock clicking open.

"Crisis over," Tommy says. "For now. I guess all I really needed was for you to call me an idiot."

Lovett laughs, high and loud, and Jon shuts the door behind them, leans back and shakes his head, eyes crinkled. "Don't encourage him," Jon says, like he hasn't been indulging all of Lovett's whims since 2009.

"I will gladly do that for you every day if necessary, Tommy," Lovett says, and then they're kissing against the wall, Lovett's palms pressed flat against Tommy's shoulders. His leg comes up to slide insistently between Tommy's, knee rubbing against his crotch until Tommy's panting into his mouth.

"Bed, I think," Jon says mildly, and Tommy steps out of his shoes as he goes, strips off his shirt and his shorts. Moonlight casts pale shadows across the room, makes everything take on a sort of reverent quality, and when Tommy sinks down onto the edge of the bed, they're both looking at him, twin expressions of appraisal on their faces, like they've been—they've been planning this. Like they've been thinking about it, too. "What do you want, Tom?"

Everything, really, but they don't have time for everything.

"When do we check out tomorrow?" Tommy asks, pushing his underwear off and dropping it over the side of the bed.

"Any time before noon," Jon says. His gaze drops as Tommy takes himself in hand and strokes once, twice, hissing a little at the dry tug.

"Okay," Tommy says, biting his lip. "Just—come here." Jon tucks himself along Tommy's side so he can kiss Tommy's neck as Lovett kneels at the foot of the bed, pushes Tommy's thighs apart, and curls one hand around the base of Tommy's dick, breathes out across the tip.

Tommy's hips jerk helplessly, and Jon reaches out to help hold him down, murmurs, "Easy."

Lovett laves his tongue beneath the head and then sucks, hard enough that a guttural moan rises from Tommy's throat. "Fuck," he says, sliding one hand into Lovett's curly hair, the other twisting in the sheets. "Oh, fuck, Lovett."

Lovett hums and sinks down a little more, bobbing his head from side to side. His mouth is wet and warm and he's staring up at Tommy through his lashes. Tommy gasps when Jon's teeth scrape against his neck, tongue soothing the sting. If he isn't careful, he's going to come like this, but what he really wants is—

"Someone should," Tommy pants, pressing his head back against the padded board, "someone should fuck me."

Lovett pulls off of him with a loud pop, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. "Yeah?" he says, voice cracking a little. "Who?"

"I don't know, draw straws," Tommy says, squirming as Jon's laughter tickles his neck.

"Not both?" Lovett says, eyes flashing. "Together?"

Jon makes a thoughtful noise. Tommy's throat goes dry just thinking about it. "We, uh, might have to work up to that," he says, swallowing.

"We've got time," Jon says, which is true. Lovett slides off the bed to rummage through his bag, and Tommy watches him wiggle out of the rest of his clothing before Jon steals his attention by leaning in to press their mouths together, hand brushing against Tommy's erection, keeping him on the edge.

"You go first," he hears Lovett say, and Jon shifts away for a brief moment to shed his pants and underwear. "It'll be easier if—"

"Yeah, I know," Jon says. "I've seen the porn." Lovett rolls his eyes, moves Tommy around until he's on his hands and knees, facing the headboard. Jon's lying on his back between Tommy's legs, slim fingers curled loosely at Tommy's hip. One of Lovett's hands brushes Tommy's shoulder, lingering there to push him lower, and then he hears the plastic click of a bottle of lube being popped open. "Hi," Jon says, smiling toothily up at him. "Wanna make out?"

Tommy snorts and leans in, kisses the corner of Jon's mouth and then scrapes his lips across the prickly stubble coming in. He gasps when he feels Lovett's slick fingers probing at the curve of his ass, testing the rim of his hole before one slides in, unhurried.

It's been a while since anyone's done this for him; the last time he stayed at Jon's, a couple weeks ago when he appeared on Lovett or Leave It, the three of them had spent the night wallowing in Jon's California king, lazily jerking each other off. Most of the time, for some reason or another, Tommy's the one doing the giving. He always forgets how overwhelming it is, being on the other side. "You're so tight," Lovett murmurs, pushing a second finger into him, and Tommy tries to think about how it's going to feel when it's two dicks instead, and can't quite imagine it.

"Relax," Jon says, running a hand up Tommy's spine, the other reaching down to tug at his dick. He turns his face into Tommy's so that he can bite gently at his lower lip, suck it into his mouth, eyelashes long and dark against his cheeks.

Tommy makes a low noise when Lovett twists three fingers in and out, other hand digging into the meat of his ass, before he pulls out completely and pats Tommy's hip. "Ready," Lovett says, and Jon props himself up on one elbow as Lovett guides Tommy's hips down, the tip of Jon's dick brushing against Tommy's hole, starting to slide in.

Jon's dick is slim like the rest of him, but long enough that Tommy can feel it surging thick in his throat with every half-inch deeper he sinks. Lovett reaches around to get a hand on Tommy's erection, and Tommy turns to push his face into Jon's shoulder, hands sliding up Jon's chest. "If you keep that up, I'm—gonna come," he says, breath hitching.

"Isn't that the point?" Lovett says, because he's a smartass, but he sounds winded, too.

Tommy sits back, takes Jon in the rest of the way with a loud squelch, and Jon's head lolls sideways as he hisses. Tommy's gonna have bruises all over, tomorrow; he'll be able to touch them and remember this, the hot press of Jon inside him, the way Lovett's fingers feel against the edge of his hole, pushing past the rim to stretch him wider. "Holy shit," Tommy says, and feels Lovett's chin hook over his shoulder, his mouth brushing against Tommy's sweaty hairline.

"Tell me if you need me to stop," Lovett murmurs, crooking his finger further inside, and Tommy can't—he can't believe how hard he is, can't believe how much his body's taking after so long. He's never been a particularly flexible person, but he feels like goo right now, malleable, like Lovett could just keep stretching him open forever.

"No, keep going," Tommy pants, clenching down to hear the wheezy, punched-out noise Jon makes through his teeth. "I can take it." Lovett inhales sharply and introduces a second finger again, slippery with fresh lube. Tommy rocks down against it, shallow circles with his hips, and sighs when Jon rubs against his prostate. His entire body feels heavy, too warm, like any minute now he's going to collapse in on himself.

It's not often that Tommy has the opportunity to let go of thinking in favor of just feeling. He's here now, though, Jon's pretty fingers still wrapped loosely around his dick, Lovett dropping kisses along the line of his shoulders, hands steady as he eases Tommy halfway off Jon, slowly begins to push himself into the space leftover.

Tommy tosses his head back, spine arching. He doesn't realize he's shaking until Jon brushes a hand up his stomach. "Tom," he rasps, "you're—you're so—you're taking us so well, Christ." He reaches up, hooks two fingers in Tommy's mouth for him to suck on, face slack with pleasure. Lovett swears under his breath as he nudges deeper, sliding against Jon, the two of them moving in asynchronous rhythm.

Lovett's chest fits against the slope of Tommy's back, and Jon sits up to kiss the trembling line of Tommy's throat, soft and delicate, and Tommy groans, "Oh, fuck," and goes off like a shot, comes all over himself without warning. He jerks through it, floating; faintly registers the way they're still moving inside him, filling him up, surrounding him in a cocoon of warmth. It's like—four espresso shots coming off a caffeine fast, like light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, like heavy rain after a drought, drowning the parched, thirsty earth. Tommy comes, slumps against Jon, pushes back against Lovett, and their hands and arms and mouths and bodies all tangle together, bearing him down and down and down.

 

 

They wake up late, curled up against each other with all the covers kicked off, but manage to check out in time to hit the road after a quick lunch in town. Lovett drives them through the home stretch, and Tommy falls asleep in the front seat as they're winding through Santa Maria, wakes up to the low murmur of voices.

"I mean, he's been staying with me," Jon's saying, in his _I'm a very reasonable person, which is why you should listen to me_ voice. "I thought we agreed. It just makes more sense."

"What's wrong with my perfectly nice house on the other side of the street?" Lovett asks archly.

"You converted your guest bedroom into a study specifically so you would never have to host anyone when they were in town."

A pause, and then, mulish: "Okay, but Tommy's different."

Jon sighs. "So what are you proposing? Some sort of timeshare? Weekends and holidays?"

"I did that enough with Mom and Dad after the divorce," Tommy says without opening his eyes, stretching his legs in the footwell. "I don't really need a repeat."

Jon chuckles, sheepish, and when Tommy peeks over, Lovett huffs, merges into the middle lane to pass a slow car on the left. "I see you playing the mild childhood trauma card," Lovett says. "Classic conversation killer."

"You know, maybe I'll go crash at Andy's instead," Tommy volunteers, thoughtful.

Jon's laughter goes creaky. "Just for that," Lovett says mutinously, "I'm keeping all the Dunkin we picked up for myself."

 

 

It's late afternoon by the time they finish moving all of Tommy's boxes out of his car and into Jon's house. Lovett picks up the dogs from Andy and Molly's; Pundit and Leo scurry in through the front door and jump around Tommy like crazy as he's typing on his laptop at the dining room table. "Guess I'll just have to spend all my time over here," Lovett says, flopping dramatically onto the couch, chin tucked over the armrest.

"As if you didn't already," Jon says, coming in from the kitchen with a glass of water and two La Croixs.

Lovett waves his hand and says, "Semantics," says, "You may have won the battle, Favreau, but you haven't won the war." He's grinning, though, the corners of his eyes crinkled. Always picking arguments just for the sake of arguing; in eight years, that hasn't changed a bit.

Jon's iPad is open to a fresh Google document, and Lovett's scrolling through his phone, calling out articles as he reads them. They've got a weekend's worth of news to catch up on, boil down, condense into podcast form tomorrow, and—there will be worse days to come, Tommy's sure, but he's with his people now, sitting at the same table where it all began, the doodles running around underfoot. They'll get Postmates for dinner, and in the morning, he'll go running with Jon. They might even be able to bully Lovett into coming with them.

There's no place he'd rather be.

"So, where do we start?" Tommy says, cracking his knuckles over his keyboard, and gets to work.


End file.
